


In Our Own Little Corner of the World

by grapalicious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Sexual Content, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapalicious/pseuds/grapalicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a (kinda long) prompt which can be summarized as follows:</p><p>Irene is a kinky dominatrix who so does enjoy a challenge. </p><p>Sherlock can give as good as he gets- actually, he usually gives better than he gets, regardless of his 'experience of lack thereof'. </p><p>John can't keep a girlfriend because no girl is willing to put up with his demanding flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Except for one girl. </p><p>Irene/Sherlock/John. Full prompt in notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Our Own Little Corner of the World

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Sherlock fanfic. It's Irene/Sherlock/John because they really shouldn't work together, but, damn, they really do, and they decided to become my OT3 without my permission.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Written for this prompt:
> 
> Irene is a kinky dominatrix who so does enjoy a challenge. She can think of a hundred different ways to wipe an arrogant smirk off a face and knows how to make someone submit to whatever fantasies she knows they'll never admit to having. She also loves when people don't exactly play by the rules- it's always so much fun. And she just so happens to have a bit of a soft spot for a certain crime solving duo, the pair of which would just look so pretty covered in bruises.
> 
> Sherlock can give as good as he gets- actually, he usually gives better than he gets, regardless of his 'experience of lack thereof'. And going toe-to-toe with a sultry brunette in a battle of dominance proves to be the perfect game whenever he needs a distraction- a game he's determined to win (but if he loses, there's always next time). And, of course, John is there too because they could always use another player (or pawn). Not as if the poor doctor had a choice, though; Sherlock would be lost without his blogger.
> 
> John can't keep a girlfriend because no girl is willing to put up with his demanding flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Except for one girl. One that happens to be quite terrifying and maybe slightly insane and possibly out to kill them. But she is quite beautiful and Sherlock likes her and John trusts Sherlock so... it's all fine. On the bright side, there's something quite dangerous about being around Sherlock and Irene- and not just because they both have an unhealthy fascination with riding crops

Irene Adler was a busy woman. However, when she wasn’t too busy causing scandals or stealing priceless artifacts all over the globe or outwitting every moronic bloke that crossed her path, she liked to spend her free time doing one of her favorite things: engaging in another round of the exciting game she had going on with one tall, pale, and wickedly handsome detective.

Her eyes raked over the door, almost as if she could will it to open with her demanding gaze alone, or at the very least make it tremble. Then she quickly grabbed the door handle and shoved it inward, letting her fingers slowly ghost over the golden numbers 221 before shutting the door. She had other things she wanted to make tremble at the moment.

She hurried up the stairs and strode through the open door, acting for all the world as if she owned the place. And she might as well have. She certainly owned the occupants, whether they knew it or not.

A familiar man stood near the sofa with his back towards her, and he started, turning around as she entered the room, a quizzical expression upon his face. He stared at her a few moments with his eyebrows raised and shook head a little. “Do you ever stay dead?” he finally asked.

Dr. John Watson. Of course. There wasn’t much one could do when dealing with Sherlock Holmes unless John Watson was involved too. They were a sort of package deal. Not that Irene minded; she’d known that for a long time. John Watson was… a good man.

She briefly wondered if the Sherlock Holmes she knew would be the same if Dr. Watson had never met him. Would Sherlock still have that tiny flash of vulnerability she caught in his eyes sometimes? That look that betrayed he did care about some things- some people- as much as he did about science or cases or deductions? Would he still have wished her Happy New Year? Maybe not. Maybe she’d have to thank John someday.

Maybe today. She smiled. There were other things about John Watson, other than the fact that he somehow connected Sherlock Holmes to the rest of the world. Irene read his blog. She could tell from the write ups of their cases how much John admired Sherlock. And from a certain blog entry, which she believed was titled ‘A Scandal in Belgravia’, she also knew how much he admired a certain Irene Adler. How had John described her? As a ‘domineering adventuress who could bring kings to their knees’? Aww. John sure knew how to pay a girl a compliment. Such a gentleman.

And she didn’t miss the looks that John gave her. The looks he gave when she taunted Sherlock or when she casually mentioned how someone was accustomed to being out cold or that someone spent most of an afternoon… upside down. John gave her these looks. Mouth open, eyes widened. Shocked… and … intrigued? Yes, that was it exactly. He looked at her with fear and curiosity. That could be an erotic combination.

She took a breath. “Not likely,” she finally answered. Quickly, she eliminated the space between her and John and pressed her body hard against his, firm breasts against muscled chest. Too bad there was clothing in between- a soft, black blouse and a hideous, way-too-thick jumper. She relished John’s sweet inhale of surprise before locking her lips on his, wanting to take back the air he just sucked in so it’d leave him breathless.

She’d been with plenty of men before. Generally, she’d avoid them if she could, finding greater satisfaction in sleeping with members of the fairer sex. She absolutely loved women. They had hair that was usually such a perfect length for getting a great hold and pulling. They had such high-pitched and delightful screams. They could have more orgasms in a certain period of time than any man ever could. Yes, she preferred women and tended to save her affections and attentions for them. However, the current residents of 221B Baker Street were an exception. And they always would be.

Irene could practically feel the confusion and discomfort radiating off of John. But under it, she knew, was a tiny spark of arousal. After all, it would be very uncharacteristic for a heterosexual man like John to not feel any excitement while kissing an attractive female such as Irene. Add to the fact the sense of danger she was sure John could feel radiating off of her, and Irene knew without having to look that John was not completely opposed their current situation.

But she did want to look so she bit down on John’s bottom lip hard and fast, jerking back at the same time he did, smirking as he let out a yelp. John stared at her, eyes darkened with bewilderment, suspicion, hesitation. His posture was stiff and rigid. Irene studied him some more. Ah… there it was. That glint in his eye. It betrayed his interest, his desire, his yearning to play with fire and see if he would get burned. Also, there was the fact that John hadn’t actually moved away from her. True that he hadn’t really put himself into the kiss and had jerked his head back when she bit him, but he didn’t step away. Their bodies were so close that Irene could feel John’s heart pounding in his chest. He could probably feel hers too.

He hadn’t stepped away so Irene took that as permission to continue. Not that she needed permission. She could do what she wanted. But it was nice when they played along sometimes.

Only a few moments after she had moved her head back to observe him, she met his lips again, kissing him even more aggressively than before. She wanted to kiss the confusion and mistrust out of his eyes until all that was left was that hunger. A hunger that she knew how to feed with lips and hands and tongues and whips. She wanted to kiss him until he was out of air. And she wouldn’t let him breathe again until he was unconscious. Until the last thought he’d have before his eyes rolled back in his head was wondering if he’d wake up or if she’d sucked the life out of him. He might even like that. The _thrill_ that it would give him.

Still trying to suffocate John with her lips, Irene’s eyes flickered to the sofa right behind him. She could… no. Right now that wasn’t exactly what she wanted. Where was…

Mmm. Footsteps.

Now, things were going to get really fun.

“John-“ Oh. That voice. That deep voice was completely different yet every bit as rousing as the shrillest scream she’d ever extracted from a woman.

Irene felt John’s whole body jump and she broke off the kiss so she could turn her gaze upon her new victim.

Sherlock Holmes was standing at the opposite end of the room, watching them with a calm and calculating expression.

John let out a cough, then he spluttered, “This isn’t- I mean- I don’t-“

Irene rolled her eyes and grabbed a fistful of John’s jumper, forcing her lips upon his once more. Not your turn to talk. Apparently, he got the message because he didn’t make another sound as she let go and focused back on Sherlock.

“Do you feel like playing a game?” Her voice was both falsely sweet and dangerously low at the same time. She kept her steely gaze on Sherlock but could see John frowning and squirming out of the corner of her eye.

Sherlock returned her gaze without wavering. “What are the rules?”

Ah. Of course- what was a game without rules? She knew she had worthy opponent.

Grinning widely, she replied, “Don’t surrender.” Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. “Unless you mean it,” she finished. He nodded his agreement.

“What else?”

Hmm, what else? Oh, there was something. “No sweet talk.”

“Sweet talk?” Of course that wouldn’t be something Sherlock Holmes was familiar with.

“No talking sweetly in bed,” she explained. “No terms of endearment. No honey, baby, sweetheart.”

“Um, not that anyone’s asked me,” John spoke up, “but I don’t really feel like playing any games.”

Irene shot her best sympathetic smile in his direction. Silly thing actually thought he had a say in the matter. “Oh, it’s a three person game,” she said matter-of-factly. Then she amended, “Well, there is a two player version, but I don’t think it’s quite as much fun.” And she knew the three of them would play. Because she knew Sherlock wanted to, and he’d want John to. And John wasn’t very likely to say no- Sherlock meant too much to him. And vice versa. Which was why this was going to work. She leaned towards him and placed firm kiss on his cheek. _Thank you, John Watson._

She cut John off before he could respond, “You’ll like it. Trust me. Or at least,” Irene gestured with her head over to Sherlock, “trust him.”

John didn’t say anything, only continued to stare at Irene doubtfully. Dear god, she was really going to have to do something about wiping that look off his face. She was sure she’d get the chance very shortly.

Irene turned back to Sherlock and slowly walked toward him. “Well?”

Sherlock’s eyes bore into her as she approached. “Are there any other rules?”

She stopped in front of him and shook her head. “Anything else is fair game.”

The corners of his lips twitched. “Then I suppose the game is on.”

She smiled, sliding past him and making her way towards the door she knew led to Sherlock’s bedroom, hands already unbuttoning her blouse.

“Come on, John,” the detective’s voice hissed impatiently. There was an indignant huff followed shortly by a resigned sigh. Her shirt fell to the floor. Her smile only grew wider.

-

-

Sherlock surveyed the clothes covering his bedroom floor. Ten minutes ago, his bedroom had been empty, his floor spotless. Now, shirts and trousers were strewn about, littering the ground and covering a spectacular portion of the carpet. The Woman’s were the first to appear there, already discarded by the time Sherlock and John had entered the room. Sherlock’s appeared next, slowing joining The Woman’s as he took his time undressing. John’s clothing had been added to the mess rather… reluctantly. He had stood near the door with his arms crossed tightly over his chest obviously trying to deny what was clearly happening in front of him and unwilling to move until Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and dragged him further into the room.

John was then immediately grabbed by The Woman, who proceeded to reach an arm around his head and place a hand on the back of his neck. She pulled him into another kiss; Sherlock guessed by John’s reaction (body language not relaxed, but less tense than earlier, slight leaning forward in response to the kiss) that it was probably the- fourth? not counting the one on the cheek of course- time she had kissed him today. That would mean one kiss before Sherlock had walked in on them. Sherlock grinned; The Woman barely had an advantage.

She had put one hand around John’s neck and the other one was working expertly to get John’s trousers off. John obviously wasn’t aware of it, failing to allocate his mental resources efficiently- most likely focusing all his attention on The Woman’s mouth, because he hadn’t exhibited the slightest sign of protest as his pants fell to the ground.

The Woman then detached her mouth from John’s and had his jumper off with her hands running over his bare torso at what Sherlock thought was a rather impressive speed. John must’ve thought so too, if his rapid blinking and blank look were anything to go by.

She had flattened her hands against John’s chest and shoved so that John fell forcefully backwards onto the bed, bouncing a bit as he landed. Sherlock had a brief moment to admire the sight of John sprawled out naked and partially aroused on his bed before The Woman had advanced upon him.

The next second, Sherlock and The Woman were pressed against each other, furiously kissing each other. Sherlock grabbed her hips, fingers splaying over her lower back while she raked her nails across his back, applying rough pressure. _Predictable_ , Sherlock thought.

Without warning, the kiss ended and Sherlock glimpsed the palm of a hand for a split second before he felt a stinging sensation on his cheek.

“Hey,” John protested from the bed, apparently not approving of the slap. “I don’t think-“

But Sherlock was on the bed in an instant, on top of John, and this time it was his mouth that shut John up. John moaned into his mouth as Sherlock kissed him, either out of surprise or out of lust. Sherlock didn’t know, but he didn’t really care; that sound went straight to his cock anyway.

Then The Woman was on the bed too. Sherlock looked at her for a brief moment- she was currently mouthing and sucking at a spot on John’s shoulder- before he focused back on John, determined to withdraw more moans from the man, determined to replace any memories of The Woman’s kisses with his own.

It wasn’t until John gasped rather sharply that Sherlock realized The Woman had moved into a different position. Sherlock lifted his head from John’s to see in between John’s legs, mouthing a different part of his anatomy. John gasped a couple more times in response to The Woman’s oral stimulation. Sherlock had just reclaimed John’s mouth when he realized that The Woman had changed positions again.

He looked back up only to see that she was… riding John. Irritated, Sherlock flopped onto his back on the bed beside them and looked around the room taking in the haphazard piles of clothing. This wasn’t exactly the scenario he had expected when they’d entered the room ten minutes ago. He really didn’t think it was fair that _The Woman_ got to have sex with John before he did. John was his colleague, his flatmate, his friend. It didn’t matter if John was “strictly-speaking” straight. The Woman was “strictly speaking” gay, yet here she was shagging his flatmate and looking like she was enjoying it.

“Are you just going to lie there and sulk?” The Woman’s voice purred.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked over to John, whose hands were fisted in the sheets and eyes were shut tight as he bit his lip. Then Sherlock noticed the mark that The Woman had left upon John’s shoulder. He rolled over onto his side, using his elbow to prop himself up so he could get a better look. The mark that she had left was right above a patch of scarred skin and, judging by the color and circumference, would face in about… four days. Sherlock smirked. He could do better.

He bent his head to John’s unmarked shoulder and let his lips softly brush over the skin there. Then he opened his mouth to bite John _hard_ , and relished in the gasp that John let out, followed by a low moan from The Woman.

He sucked hard at the skin under his mouth, he kissed it, he occasionally let his teeth scrape over the abused skin, causing John to shiver. When he was satisfied, Sherlock finally drew back to look at his handiwork. Perfect. That mark wouldn’t fade for at least a week.

Still smirking, Sherlock let his gaze wander back over to The Woman. She was still straddling John, rocking her body back and forth. Sherlock got to his knees and scooted closer to her. She studied him as he edged nearer, but she didn’t stop her own movements. Sherlock stopped when their heads were inches apart and they simply stared at one another, eyes daring and dangerous.

Then Sherlock grabbed her soldiers roughly and seized her mouth, kissing her hard and brutally, claiming dominance. Then, in another moment, he had moved her completely off of John and had pushed her off the side of the bed, sending her tumbling to the floor.

Sherlock quickly moved in between his flatmate’s legs and looked up at John. He had his eyes opened now, his chest was heaving, his mouth opened as he panted hard through swollen lips. There was a clouded mixture of confusion and longing in John’s eyes and Sherlock held his gaze. Then he winked at John and lowered his head to finish with his mouth what The Woman had started. Less than a minute later, Sherlock had brought John to orgasm.

Sherlock moved his body back up the bed, placing his elbows on either side of John’s head and looked into John’s eyes which were now only filled with contentment. Sherlock bent his head to run his lips over the skin on John’s neck, underneath his ear.

He raised his voice to something a little louder than a mumble and asked facetiously, making sure his voice clearly said _I do not really care_ , “Are you okay down there, love?” He addressed The Woman, who had moved around on the floor the last couple minutes, but hadn’t actually gotten up.

A resounding _CRACK!_ filled the room, startling John who exclaimed “Jesus!”, and causing Sherlock to jerk violently as he registered heated pain blooming over his backside. He groaned and rolled over onto his back beside John to see The Woman standing at the side of the bed with his riding crop in her hands.

She smiled at him and shook her head. “You broke a rule,” she said, climbing back on the bed and leaning over John to run her nails over Sherlock’s body. “No pet names.” Then her hands were under him and she flipped Sherlock over, sending him tumbling down over the opposite side of the bed from the one that she landed on.

Sherlock rolled over so that he was lying on his back and stared at the ceiling. He lifted his head to catch The Woman peering at him from above. “You okay down there, love?” She laughed and disappeared back over the edge of the bed, doing something to John which caused him to groan deeply.

Sherlock dropped his head back onto the floor with a soft thud. He let his eyes close and let his ears listen intently as he memorized every moan and gasp and throaty chuckle coming from the bed above him.

 

-

-

“JOHN!” Sherlock’s voice echoed throughout the flat. John looked up from his laptop and glared in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. What did he want this time? Or, more precisely, what did _they_ want? He knew Irene- “The Woman” as Sherlock called her- was in the bedroom too.

He knew it had something to do with their little “game” or whatever it was. That was the only reason those two were ever in the bedroom together. John tried to avoid them sometimes, to stay out of their way while they had it out, but normally he ended up getting sucked into the game too.

And John would sometimes frown to himself and wonder how in the world this thing they had became normal. He remembered vividly enough how it had started- with Irene marching into their flat one Thursday afternoon and assaulting him with her mouth. He’d been pretty shocked at that; mostly because he’d never been snogged by a lesbian before (just had a quick peck on the cheek from Harry once) and slightly because he’d been under the impression that she was dead. But she seemed to have a nasty habit of coming back to life. Like a zombie. Or- no, that wasn’t quite right. Irene was more like a vampire. Yep, a vampire made more sense. She had some sort of insatiable bloodlust and definitely liked to bite.

He used to think sometimes, after stumbling back inside their flat with Sherlock some nights when they’d ran around London for hours, that Sherlock would be the death of him. He didn’t really think that anymore. Now, he mostly thought that Irene was going to be the death of both him _and_ Sherlock.

After Irene had kissed him that first time, his mind had gradually become more clouded and muddled with conflicting emotions of rational hesitance and unwarranted lust. And when his mind eventually cleared, he found himself naked and panting and pretty much not caring about anything at all.

John thought that it was a one time deal. He never expected it to happen again. He thought Irene was feeling bored, feeling like fooling around and playing a game, and now that she’d had her fun she’d be off to do bigger and better things. Who knows? Maybe she had. But she came back. And she kept coming back. She might leave a few minutes after, or a few hours, or even stay the night and leave the next day. But she’d come back. Every time she left John would tell himself that next time- next time he’d just stay out of it. Except Irene was a spider and John kept getting caught in her web.

And he found he didn’t actually dislike Irene as much as he wanted to. As much as a sane person really ought to. Because she was sneaky and manipulative and quite possibly a creature of the damned. John should have nailed a cross to the door and poured salt on the floor. She had a problem with boundaries. Like that time she’d started masturbating on the couch.

But… but Irene was also very beautiful and extremely sexy and seemed to be the only woman in the world that could stand being around Sherlock more than a few minutes, therefore, the only woman that would actually give John the time of day. And sometimes she could actually be quite nice, like throwing around theories to help solve a murder, or the other day when she’d actually brought a case to their attention from someone in the Middle East.

Now, John was glaring towards the bedroom and ran his tongue over his lips in contemplation, wondering what he _wouldn’t_ do for the two people that were in there. He’d realized not long after meeting Sherlock that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for the man, finding himself almost always complying with Sherlock’s, often quite ridiculous, requests. That was fine with John though; Sherlock was his _friend_. Irene was… John had no idea what Irene was. Maybe a harpy.

“JOHN! COME _HERE_!” John probably shouldn’t go into the bedroom. He was in the middle of something. He should ignore them. Whatever they wanted from him could only mean danger for John.

He sighed and closed his laptop, standing up. They could at least _ask_ sometimes. It wasn’t very likely he’d answer no since, yes, God help him, there was not a lot that he wasn’t willing to put up with from them.

When John opened the door, the first thing that grabbed his attention was the backside of a completely naked Sherlock. He was standing with his back toward the door and right past him there stood a very naked Irene, facing Sherlock. They each held a riding crop in their hands.

John caught Irene’s eye past Sherlock’s shoulder and she grinned at him. A terrifying grin. Then she winked. John was fairly certain that Irene was reading his mind sometimes. God, she could be as scary as she was gorgeous. A succubus, John decided. Irene must be a succubus. He should turn around. Turn around and leave right now.

He took a step further into the room.

“We want your opinion,” Irene told him.

“You’re both lunatics,” John supplied.

Sherlock turned to face him. There were a couple of angry red scratches across his shoulder. Irene must have decided to play cat and use Sherlock as a scratching post again.“We need your assistance with an experiment, John,” he explained.

“Experiment?” John crossed his arms.

“We’re having a bit of a debate,” Irene elaborated. “You see, we just can’t seem to agree which one of us is more skilled with the riding crop.”

“It’s me, obviously.”

“Obviously not.”

“We need more data,” Sherlock said. “And we need your help.”

John’s eyes flickered between them. He shouldn’t encourage them. It’s not like he could choose a side- whenever he ended up choosing sides, he always seemed to be on the losing one. He should refuse. He should say “no, no thank you,” and go back to his computer. This was a dangerous situation. He should-

“Experiment away,” John shrugged, pulling off his shirt.

The experiment turned out to yield inconclusive results. Nobody really lost. It was more like a stalemate. Sherlock and Irene turned out to be pretty evenly matched concerning all things riding crop. The three of them agreed to abandon the experiment, but apparently Sherlock and Irene decided to move on to a new one without informing John. They had taken to leaving scores of hickeys all over John’s torso.

Well, Sherlock was probably doing it for some sort of experimentation purposes. Irene might’ve been doing it just to placate her sadism. John finally had to draw the line and order them to stop for fear that he wouldn’t have an unmarked patch of skin left. Surprisingly, they complied, which is how John suddenly find himself struggling to breathe as one mouth attached itself to his and another one found its way to his cock, and he honestly didn’t know whose mouth belonged to who.

If someone had told John when he first moved into 221b Baker Street that he’d end up having sex with his flatmate, he’d have laughed awkwardly and replied, “Uh, no.” Just no. It’s not that he was put off by the idea or anything, John had always been… what was the way to put it?... “Open to new experiences.” It’s just that John had never really imagined himself having sex with any bloke, much less Sherlock who was… well, Sherlock.

But they do end up having sex and the first time they do John isn’t even really aware that it’s happening until it’s, you know, happening. He blames it on being distracted by very talented mouths and naughty words being whispered to him. He doesn’t even have time to feel nervous or embarrassed and the whole time Irene has her mouth next to her ear saying things like, “If you ever decide to write this up in your blog, I think an appropriate way to describe it would be ‘toe-curling’, yes?” _Yes. Thank you, Irene._

She’s right, it’s not bad. It’s actually good. Quite good, John reflects when it’s all over. Maybe he was wrong earlier. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a stalemate. John would prefer to describe it as a three-way-tie.

 

-

-

Irene slightly shook her wet hair as she leaned further back against the arm of the sofa letting her body stretch across the rest of the couch.

John and Sherlock were sitting at the desk, John typing on his laptop and Sherlock thinking with his fingers steepled together. Oh, that desk. She did have Sherlock on it begging for mercy, twice. And then they’d had John, three times. And, she grudgingly admitted, they’d made her beg… once. But what was a girl supposed to do when she was bent over a desk and wanted to be pounded so hard it’d leave bruises across her hips? And boy, did they leave bruises…

It was different, she thought. Being with them compared to being with anyone else. It was… special in a way. She knew they knew it too.

It might not have been love that they had between the three of them, not in the romantic sense anyways, but whatever they had worked. They had their own kind of trust, their own understanding, their own brand of happiness.

They went about their lives as normal. John wore ridiculous jumpers, Sherlock experimented on frozen body parts, Irene sent texts that went unreplied. I want you to fuck me. Let’s have dinner. Irene knew better than to expect an answer. There was only one person Sherlock ever had dinner with. Only one person that he would bring himself to do the little things for- like going shopping or holding the door open. Irene got the door slammed in her face. She wondered what Sherlock would reply if John had sent him that text. Maybe she’d have to steal John’s phone and conduct her own little experiment to find out.

Outside, in the real world, she was a dominatrix, Sherlock was a sociopath, John was a soldier and a doctor. Oh, they could be those things in bed too. But there were other things they could be or not be. Things they could do or not do. In their own little corner of the world, they could show each other vulnerabilities that no one else was allowed to see. Irene and Sherlock could stop thinking, if they wanted, knowing someone else was around with a mind fast enough to keep up with every detail the world was throwing at them. They both fought for control, yes, but they both knew when it was safe to give it up. Sherlock and John could show each other in ways that they could never have the words to say out loud how much they meant to one another. That they had a bond that went deeper than flatmates or colleagues. John and Irene didn’t have to worry about judgments or criticisms from society, things that Sherlock hardly cared or paid attention to anyways, saying things like “Why worry about what people think? Most of them don’t do it very often.”

They didn’t worry about labels. None of them did when they were together. Whatever you wanted to stick before the word ‘sexual’ when claiming your orientation, it didn’t apply at 221B Baker Street.

John was still typing on his laptop. Sherlock was still thinking with his fingers pressed together up against his chin. Irene looked at her fingernails. Huh, it looked like there was a bit of blood underneath one of them. She must have scratched one of them so hard she broke the skin without realizing it. Again. Shame, she really liked to keep count of how many times she drew blood.

What was John typing? He could have been answering email but odds were he was probably writing in his blog. She wondered how many more variations of ‘Sherlock’s brilliant detective skills’ he could come up with.

Did Sherlock always think with his fingers like that? Mmm, they looked so long. And they were positioned right by his delicious mouth, making it even more seductive. She could put one of those fingers in her mouth, sucking gently as he licked his lips. Irene let herself shiver as a tingle of pleasure coursed through her body. She imagined those hands fingering the neck of a violin, playing tunes she could only imagine and then those same hands were playing her body, reaching places that any woman’s hands could never get to, drawing sounds out of her that she didn’t need to imagine. She could remember.

She felt her eyelids drooping shut as her hands slid down her robe and let her mind drift away…

 

-

-

The Woman was smiling at him, her white teeth contrasted against her red lipstick. The same shade of red she was wearing when they first met. The same shade he had wiped off his cheek after waking up from a drug induced night. The same shade that he’d seen smeared across John’s skin a dozen times. If she was any other woman, Sherlock might’ve said that it was a habit. That she wore the same shade of lipstick out of routine. But this wasn’t any other woman. This was The Woman and she didn’t do things absentmindedly. No, that shade of red was another part of the game.

“Are you sure you want to play this game right now?” She asked him, the smiling never leaving her face.

“Are you afraid you’ll lose?” Sherlock replied.

“No,” she looked him up and down. “I’m terrified I’ll win too soon.”

There was silence for a moment. “John’s visiting his sister,” said Sherlock.

“I know.” She studied him. Then finally said, “I guess this round will just be two players.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. He’d been eager for a distraction. He had no cases and John had been gone for two days and he was practically tearing up the walls with boredom. The Woman had good timing. Not only did she leave when Sherlock had no real interest in her being there, she also seemed to show up when he needed her. Her games made for such an interesting distraction.

This time is a little different though. It is usually so much easier when John is here, but Sherlock’s always been good at improvising.

It’s not like sex was science after all. Well, okay, it _was_. Biology and all that. But mostly instinct. Sherlock had always had good instincts. He was smart and sex didn’t require a lot of brainpower. Idiots had sex all the time. After being in bed with John and The Woman, Sherlock could see why. Having sex with them was like being drugs. It was better than drugs actually. Better than caffeine and nicotine and morphine all rolled into one.

Kissing John was valium. Kissing The Woman was opium. Blow jobs were cocaine. Orgasms were ecstasy.

The Woman was still smiling at him. That red lipstick… Sherlock should kiss her. He did.

After a few minutes, the kiss progressed from a brushing of soft lips and tongues to a battle of biting teeth. They broke the kiss to rip the clothes off of each other. A few buttons were sacrificed in the process.

More kissing. More biting. Then grabbing, pulling, pushing. Scratching.

One of Sherlock’s hands traveled from The Woman’s hip to in between her legs. He thrust his fingers into her. Her breath hitched and she moaned, gripping his shoulders tighter with her hands.

Sherlock thrust harder. She brought her mouth next to his ear. “I surrender,” she whispered.

Then they were lying down, Sherlock on top and still thrusting into her.

Even though The Woman had submitted to defeat and was thrashing and moaning below him, he still had the feeling that she hadn’t really given up control.

He should have known she wouldn’t play by the rules.

 

-

-

John blearily opened his eyes as he registered movement next to him in bed. He took in the long hair and silk robe and frowned. Irene usually slept in Sherlock’s bed when she stayed there all night. What was she doing crawling into his?

Irene smirked softly at him through the darkness as she pulled the sheets over her body and placed her cheek down on the pillow so she was facing John. Probably reading his mind again.

Sure enough- “He’s thinking,” Irene replied to John’s unasked question. “He’s been playing for hours now. It’s too… upbeat.”

Brain still fuzzy from waking up, John tried to make sense of her words. Then he heard it- faint violin notes drifting from downstairs.

“Thinking?” John asked, not able to get much more out as his voice was still thick with tiredness.

It was obvious from the bright awareness in Irene’s eyes that she hadn’t been sleeping any time recently. She hummed. “About that case.”

“The one with the Sultan and the missing jewelry?”

Irene nodded. Then suddenly she asked, “Do you mind?”

Did he mind what? She usually didn’t ask things like that. It took a minute for John to- oh. Irene was frowning slightly at him. Of course he didn’t mind if she slept here.

He answered by leaning closer to her and placing a soft kiss on her cheek, then pulled away and closed his eyes as he settled back on his pillow.

“You’re too nice, John,” she said and she actually sounded like she was scolding him. John just smiled and kept his eyes closed.

A few minutes later, Irene’s voice rang through the room. “Should I tell him?”

John opened his eyes to see Irene looking at the ceiling now, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “About the case,” she added, keeping her gaze locked above her. John frowned, trying to read between the lines, to figure out what she wasn’t saying.

“Do you mean you solved the case? You know who it is? The jewelry thief?”

Irene looked at him again, the mischievous look mirrored in her eyes as well as her smile. It was a look she wore often and a look John knew well. “John,” she sounded quite offended. Her voice lowered into a playful whisper, “Who do you think it was that stole the necklace?”

John stared at her in awe before breaking into a smile of his own and let out a small laugh. Then he put on a thoughtful face as he faked contemplation for a moment.

“Nah,” he finally said. “He’ll figure it out.”

The smile Irene was giving him now had an air of approval to it and John felt as if he had passed some sort of test.

“Goodnight John,” she said lightly, closing her eyes.

“Goodnight,” he replied contentedly. He shut his own eyes and, with a feeling of warmth beside him and an echoing of violin washing over him, John fell asleep.


End file.
